Beautifully Wicked: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book One)

by Jordan Grant

  I think maybe if I tell Harlow all of it, this bullshit will be over. Maybe if I tell her what the Thing really is and what the Thing did, Stormy will voluntarily switch sides. Then there will be no more rules that I have to follow, no more Aurora breathing down my neck, and no more looks from Everett like he wonders what pile of shit I will walk into next.

  But no telling allowed, remember? It’s in the godforsaken Rules.

  I need this over before it’s too late, before Aurora or Finn get so pissed they call a goddamn vote. If a vote happens, I will lose. I know that without question.

  Two and a half years ago, consumed by rage and bitterness and heartbreak, we agreed to the Rules, five girls and five boys. We were stupid kids, callow and ignorant, but if Aurora forces a vote now, Finn will no doubt side with the girls, and I’m done for. At best, my penance will be to lose Harlow. If they enforce the penalty clause of the contract, I will lose much more than that.

  Not that I’d go down without a goddamn fight. I certainly would, but there would be bloodshed. Needless bloodshed, all because Harlow has decided Molly is the victim and me the villain.

  Aurora, with her sixth sense for conflict and strife, appears seemingly out of nowhere at my side. She should have been named Athena because of the wars that erupt in her wake. No, that’s being too nice because last year’s Ancient Philosophies class taught me Athena is also the Greek goddess of wisdom. Aurora should have been named Eris, the goddess of chaos. She spreads ruin wherever she goes, and it makes me sick to think how long it took me to see it.

  Aurora lays a hand on my shoulder. I resist the urge to swat her away. It’ll no doubt just piss her off though. What the fuck is with all the touching lately?

  “What are you planning for her today?” she asks, sneaking a glance at her phone, but I know she’s not really reading whatever’s on the screen.

  I shrug. I don’t want to include her. “Something will come to me.”

  “You’re going to have to try harder, Ian. Whatever it is you are doing, it’s not working.”

  “I’m getting in her head, Aurora.” More like she’s getting into mine.

  “You better be.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  She stares at me, blinking wildly like she’s so innocent. I slam my locker shut with my fist.

  “Nothing,” she says, smirking. Shit. She knows she got under my skin. “Why don’t you come over tonight? You seem stressed." She runs a hand across my chest. I really should slap her hand away, but at least she has changed subjects.

  “Maybe.” It is all I can manage through my clenched teeth.

  She smells like that lily perfume she likes to drown herself in every morning. It fits her because just like the flower, she’s poisonous even in small doses.

  Aurora smiles, pleased I haven’t just blown her off.

  “I’ll wear that thing you like,” she says.

  I want to roll my eyes, but it’ll just bring the high school equivalent of Ragnarok raining down on Stormy so I don’t. Aurora is talking about the tiny negligee that almost got her laid two summers ago.

  She doesn’t like to remember that I was so drunk I didn’t even know it was her. She also doesn’t like to remember I’d puked up everything I had and then dry-heaved when Everett saved me and pointed out who—or, rather, what—I was about to fuck.

  “I have to go to class.” I shrug her talons off me and step away. She follows me like a lost, poisonous pet.

  “See you later, babe.” The words are loud enough for everyone in Adaptive English, including Harlow, to hear.

  Fuck. Me.

  I take my seat behind Harlow, and damn it, if she refuses to even look at me.

  This is torture, only instead of laying on a rack in a cold chamber waiting for the executioner to arrive, I am sitting at my desk and Ms. Edmonds is nowhere to be found.

  Good.

  I have time to fix this shit, even though I’m not sure I can. I have to try though because if I don’t, I am going to hit something or spontaneously combust or maybe both.

  “Stormy,” I growl, glad Ivy is distracted by the latest gossip surrounding which freshman might be pregnant with another one’s baby. I can hear her screeches with Blythe from the opposite side of the room. They still look over at us occasionally, probably to make sure we both look miserable.

  “Stormy,” I say, and Harlow finally turns around, the movement so quick, I think she will snap her neck from the whiplash.

  I see it there, even if she refuses to admit it: conflict, caught somewhere between repulsion and desire. I recognize it because it’s exactly what I see every morning when I look in the mirror.

  “Yes?” she asks, her lips pursed like she’s about to spit at me.

  I lean in close, my eyes flicking to Ivy and Blythe, who still appear up to their knees in gossip.

  “I need you to pretend to cry,” I whisper. “Please.”

  Her mouth opens as shock registers on her face. It may not be expressly forbidden, given we were all dumbasses when the Rules were written, but I will have hell to pay if Aurora finds out about this.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she hisses, and given her explosion of anger, I am surprised she isn’t yelling at me, but then she finishes the thought, and I understand why she is whispering—embarrassment. “Does that get you off or something, Beckett? Is seeing me cry your ultimate fantasy?”

  My patience cracks like the ground tearing open at the force of an earthquake. It’s ground-shattering, tide-changing, building-tumbling, and it demolishes the world around us until all I see is her face. Does she think I’m a freak? A monster whose enjoys the idea of dipping his cock in the unwilling? Apparently.

  It’s everything I can do not to scream, to bridle the rage that threatens to consume me.

  I wrap a trembling hand around the back of her neck, under her hair, and pull her closer. At least if Ivy and Blythe look, my expression is downright deadly. She should be afraid.

  I am afraid of what I might do.

  “All I want,” I breathe, and it’s a miracle the words are even discernible given the roar in my ears, “all I’ve ever wanted is to protect you. I am not the monster here, Harlow.”

  Her eyes flick to my lips, and the pain in the pit of my stomach coils tighter and erupts. She is splitting me apart, and the shards left in her wake are ugly and ragged and fucking dangerous.

  She says nothing. I hold onto the last thread of my patience like it’s the only thing preventing my fall off the cliff. Maybe it is.

  “Are you colorblind?” I snarl after she continues her silent treatment.

  “What?” Her eyes widen in surprise and then narrow like she knows I’m about to drop a truth bomb on top of her skull.

  “Are you fucking colorblind?” I demand.

  She shakes her head, and it’s like the word is pried from behind her teeth with a crowbar. “No.”

  “Then stop seeing the world in black and white.”

  My words wash the color from her face. I should let her go. I shouldn’t continue to touch her because touching her and not having her is the purest form of agony.

  Looking at Harlow is like watching the moment a bomb detonates. I wish I could look away. I wish I could run. But I am helpless as the ash cloud rises and the debris falls, destined to stand there and do nothing even when I know I’m about to get demolished.

  She regards me for a long, excruciating moment. A layer of ice now covers the churning tide in her irises.

  “You refuse to tell me why you hate Molly, why you bully her,” she says. “You refuse to give me answers, yet you want me to see it your way?” She scoffs. “I’ll give you a hint, Beckett. I don’t give a shit what your reasons are. No one deserves torment, no matter what they’ve done.”

  “Even if they committed murder?” The words are stolen from my throat before I can stop their theft.

  Harlow stares at me, her eyes bulging. I want her to ask more. I want her to push me right now be
cause I’m hanging onto my self-control by a fraying thread and if she asks, I will probably spill every secret I hold like a gutted fish. But Harlow saves us both from the wrath of Aurora when all she does is stare at me for a long moment.

  Her breath escapes her in rapid bursts, fanning my face with the scent of that lemon zest tea she is always drinking. I let my eyes close for a moment and breathe in deeply.

  I am a star, helpless as I float in her universe and she pushes me away.

  Then, as if she comes to her senses and remembers her words, she sneers at me, and I know she’s about to hit me with a smart-ass remark. It’s like she can’t help herself, but like a freak, I crave the slap of her words.

  “You’re like a Christmas Tree, Ian Beckett,” she says finally.

  My words are dry, just like my mouth. “I should only be allowed out of the attic one month out of the year?”

  She shakes her head slowly, the back of her neck twisting in my grasp. “You are devastatingly pretty on the outside,” she says, “but on the inside, I’m convinced you’re dead and rotting.”

  “If I’m a Christmas tree,” I hiss, leaning in close and letting my gaze linger on the swell of her bee-stung lips, “then you are a goddamn woodchipper.”

  I’m going to kiss her.

  I’m going to devour her.

  I’m going to...

  Sense comes plummeting down from the heavens and lands smack dab on my head. I realize I no longer hear Blythe laughing like a hyena, meaning she’s left the room. My gaze snaps, and I find Ivy gaping at the two of us.

  I release Stormy and reach around her to snatch a notebook off her desk. She’s old school that way, refusing to bring a laptop or tablet to class like the rest of us.

  I rip the thing in half in front of her face.

  Her nostrils flare, panic bleaching the color from her face as she realizes what I’ve done.

  I am shaking. The monster inside me roars in ugly satisfaction.

  “Mr. Beckett!” Ms. Edmonds shrieks as she walks inside the room.

  Perfect. Fucking. Timing.

  “Yes?” I seethe, the halves of Harlow’s notebook clenched in my fists.

  “Headmistress DuMonte’s office now.”

  The class snickers as I throw the notebook on Harlow’s desk, sending pages scattering and floating down to the floor, and storm out of the classroom.

  — Harlow —

  My phone dings, and I reach for it out of habit. I should be translating middle English to modern English, but I am exhausted after a third battle with my Calculus homework.

  I can’t seem to concentrate. Everything is taking way too much time—time I can’t afford to waste given how everyone around here seems to have Ivy-league training since birth. All-in-all, it puts me in a foul mood.

  Unknown Number: Stormy.

  Only one person calls me that. Ian. Spawn-of-Satan. Beckett.

  It hasn’t even been twelve hours since he ripped up my notebook, and here I am, staring at my lame attempt to tape the pages back together. Can’t he let me grieve in peace? It’s only common courtesy to not gloat in your victim’s face.

  I ignore the message.

  Three seconds later, my phone dings again.

  Ian: plz talk 2 me.

  I can imagine him as he typed the words, his steely eyes downcast as he pouted, his bottom lip sticking outward just a little. He’s like if Lucifer had a torrid affair with an archangel and produced a bastard child, equal parts sin and beauty.

  It’s not fair. Sculpted muscles for days, a nest of inky hair that never behaves, and a jawline that makes Michelangelo’s David look like a slacker. A warm pulse beats to life between my legs before I come to my senses.

  Stop it, Harlow!

  I flip my phone over, place my chemistry textbook on it, and ignore that message too. Less than a minute later, as if Ian literally can’t stand the suspense—as though he has absolutely no patience left—my phone dings again. It takes me exactly two seconds to send the chemistry book to the floor and free my phone.

  Ian: i am sorry.

  I snort, and it’s so obnoxious I’m surprised it doesn’t catch Molly’s attention, but she’s engrossed in a hot vampire melodrama streaming from her laptop.

  Ian: i wish i could take it all back. i am so, so sorry, Stormy. Plz talk 2 me. This is killing me.

  Ian: i know it’s killing u 2.

  My resolve snaps, shatters, and then spontaneously combusts. My thumbs angrily punch the screen, sending forth a fast barrage of text bubbles.

  Me: Stop texting me, Beckett!

  Me: You’re sorry?!

  Me: FOR WHAT?! Ruining my class notes or trying to ruin my life?

  Me: What is your deal? Are you like training for the douche Olympic winter games or something? CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR UPCOMING GOLD MEDAL, ASSHOLE!

  Why does it feel like I’m giving him what he wants? I should shut up. I should give him the silent treatment. I should NOT be texting curse words at practical, albeit delicious, strangers.

  My bitchy thumbs get the best of me.

  Me: How did you even get my #?

  Ian: Raven.

  My fingers bite into the sequins on my phone case, but before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my hand.

  Ian: i am sry about ur notes. i’ll give u mine.

  Ian: don’t b mad @ Raven. She thinks it’s 4 a class project.

  I hit the keys without thinking.

  Me: You could’ve just asked me for it.

  Me: Stalker.

  A second or two or eight passes.

  Me: And I don’t want your craptastic notes.

  Ian: u’d give it 2 me?

  I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck that way. Of course, that’s what he took from everything I said. My thumbs lie for me.

  Me: Never.

  Ian: Never?

  Me: NEVER!

  Ian: i’m e-mailing u my notes. u know they’re better than urs anyway. u spend every class thinking of me.

  Queue my turn to play in the ignore-that-comment game.

  Me: YOU HAVE MY EMAIL?!?!?!?!?!!!!

  Ian: plz calm down, sweetness. it’s not good for our future children, u busting my balls this hard.

  I freeze as my eyes go wide.

  What. The. Firecracker.

  A moment passes, and a new text bubble appears.

  Ian: lemme make it up 2 u. Go somewhere w/ me this wknd. No1 has 2 know.

  My heart flip-flops in my chest like a fish out of water. Our future children?! My body simultaneously develops a fever and early menopause. My core temperature spikes, my pulse hammering wildly as sweat pops up low on my back.

  Who does he think he is? He is infuriating. He is capricious. One minute he is fire, and the next he is ice.

  He is a wicked, wicked boy.

  Still, my traitorous fingers type back.

  Me: You text like a heathen. Did fancy prep schools teach you nothing?

  Me: And why should I go anywhere with you?

  Three little dots appear on the screen. I hold my breath as they stay there, mocking me before they disappear. My stomach plummets to the floor, digs its way to the core of the earth, and keeps going as the three little dots appear again.

  Ian: Because you are sunshine even in the darkest of times.

  Molly looks over at me, perched on her bed, as I suck in a strangled breath.

  He fights dirty. My thumbs slide to my phone.

  Me: And you are my blood moon.

  Although I mean it to show he could never break me—just like the sun always reappears after a blood moon eclipse—I realize too late that there is another meaning to my words. One from the Bible, Joel 2:31.

  “The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord.”

  If I listen to those words, our fates are forever intertwined so that when one of us topples, the other too will surely fall.

  Somehow, I know Ian stares at
my text and laughs.

  16

  Harlow

  At lunch, I realize I have left my chemistry homework in my room. Mr. Collins does not strike me as the understanding type. My stomach grumbles loudly. I want to grab food before lab, but I have to go back to my dorm.

  I squeeze through a herd of students, all headed in the opposite direction, toward the dining hall. My flats slap against the marble floor as I dart between bodies. A girl stops at her locker, turning around to gossip with her bright-eyed friend, and I rush around them.

  When I emerge from the herd, I bound forward as though my feet are on fire and the only way to put out the flames is to run. Headmistress DuMonte glides into my path from an intersecting hallway, and I screech to a stop in front of her, my arms flailing as my heart leaps into my chest. She eyes me over a pair of tortoise-shell, cat-eye glasses that hang onto her face by the hook of her nose.

  She frowns at me, and I am close enough to smell the faint scent of mothballs and shoe polish emanating from her, which isn’t surprising given she’s wearing a long-sleeve swing dress circa 1950s and a pair of leather boots that stop at her ankles. Not a single strand of salt-and-pepper hair escapes the tight bun at the back of her head.

  Headmistress is probably about to throw a demerit my way. She opens her mouth to say something, but a clamor breaks out behind me as an unfortunate boy trips and sends a war diorama flying into the air, raining toy soldiers and fake cannons down on passing students.

  “Mr. Jones!” Headmistress shrieks. My shoulders tense at the unforgiving grate in her voice, and I hurry away, grateful her attention is no longer on me.

  My stomach pinches again as it grumbles.

  I am actually looking forward to chemistry today. Heck, I look forward to it every day because my lab partner reminds me of Ian in all the good ways and none of the bad, except that he too refuses to intervene in Finn Berkshire making Molly’s life miserable.

  I have lost count of how many times Archie has asked me out. It has become a joke at this point. While Ian looks at me like he will literally explode if I decline him—which sadly never works—Archie just laughs when I say no. If he would stop refusing to stand up for my friend, I might take him up on his offer, but then again, his reputation precedes him. That boy has so many notches in his bedpost I’d be surprised if his mattress wasn’t already on the floor.